


The Hospitality of the Wood

by icarus_chained



Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Irish Mythology, Original Work
Genre: Bards, Blood and Injury, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Changelings, Druids, Elves, Forests, Gen, Healing, Inspired by Dungeons & Dragons, Original Fiction, Rangers, Shifters, barbarians - Freeform, hospitality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 10:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30104304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: Hunted into the mystic confines of Dara Wood by the forces of a very inhospitable lord, one of them badly wounded, Aodh Maol-Morrígan and Fand Ildánach, a warrior and a bard respectively, meet a very strange but verywelcomingcreature who does her best to help them.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	The Hospitality of the Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Since I've been talking lately about [Celtic-inspired D&D adventures](https://honourablejester.tumblr.com/post/644016554826137600/celtic-pantheoncampaigns-5e-ddlong-post) ...

Fand’s strength was flagging badly. Aodh could tell, no matter how hard the woman fought to disguise her laboured breathing and stumbling steps, or the fumbling of her hands on passing trees as she tried to hold herself up. The wound had broken open again. He knew it had. Even if he couldn’t have spotted the blood under her pressed arm, he was pretty sure surface elves weren’t supposed to be _grey_. Forest twilight or no forest twilight. 

If she’d lost enough blood for that kind of pallor, they needed to find somewhere to hunker down. Knowing Fand, Aodh had every confidence that she would run until she literally dropped, out of raw stubbornness if nothing else, but that wouldn’t help them in the long run. They needed to play this smart, not stubborn. And, ideally, not die.

They might be far enough already. The knights had proven worryingly stubborn so far, but they were also mounted, and Dara Wood was not favourable terrain for mounted pursuers. If they’d left the horses behind, they’d be greatly slowed, and a lot louder in their plate armour than either Aodh or Fand. It was … probably safe to rest. At least for a little while. Long enough to get a look at the wound again. Let her sing herself back to some strength, once she was able.

Honestly, though, whether it was safe or not, they didn’t really have a choice. Two days of harried pursuit on, if they didn’t get some rest soon, Fand at least was dead for sure.

Almost on the heels of the thought, Fand’s hand slipped. She staggered, stumbled sideways into a tree, catching herself hard on her upper arm. She made a noise, a choked, cut-off breath. Still muffled, out of savage will. Her knees sagged. If Aodh hadn’t darted the few steps forward to catch her, she would have gone down at last. Half a day later than she should have done, but at the finish nonetheless.

But he did catch her. Bundled her up into his arms. She hissed through her teeth, both arms wrapped around her middle. Her skin _was_ grey. It was no trick of the moonlight. The pallor had sunk deep. Her tunic was dark and tacky around her side. He shook his head, and leaned them both against the tree, bearing her weight.

“We need to stop,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t want to, Fand. But you’re bleeding out. We need to stop.”

She snarled silently. Leaning her face into his shoulder to hide it. 

“We don’t have time,” she whispered tightly. “They’re fucking stubborn, Aodh. We can’t risk it.”

He almost laughed. The _knights_ were fucking stubborn, hmm? You’d think a bard would know the phrase about pots and kettles, wouldn’t you.

But she was too tired for laughing. And he did understand. He’d seen this before. _Felt_ it before. The point past endurance where all you were running on was a single goal, etched into your mind, with no more room for qualification or adjustment or even really thought. A set course, that changing would require more awareness than you had left. It wasn’t her fault, he knew. There was a point past bearing where motion was mindless, and determination instinctive and unreasoning. She’d passed it long ago. And if he’d had any less stamina than he had, so would he.

Stubbornness could only get you so far, though. Even one as legendary as Fand Ildánach’s. 

He bowed his head to hers. Pressed a kiss to her temple, a soft thing, just to soothe. Rested his cheek on her hair. “You’re right,” he said. “We’re out of time. And everything else as well. The running’s done, Fand. We sit and rest, or we stand and die, one or the other from here. I’ll carry you. I’ll find us somewhere. But we’re not running anymore.”

She closed her eyes. He could feel the brush of her lashes against his collarbone. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Let it out in an equally shuddering sigh. And let herself go limp in his arms.

“Fuckers,” she whispered tightly. All the eloquence of a true bard. “Absolute fuckers.”

Aodh snorted softly. Held her tight. “Yes indeed,” he said. 

Yes indeed. The Knights of the Red Flower were fuckers without a doubt. Commanded by the chief of all landed fuckers, Bres the Beautiful. Fand had been entirely justified in scathing him up one side and down the other for his ‘hospitality’, Aodh wouldn’t dare say otherwise. He just … could maybe wish that she’d waited until they were somewhere a little bit further away to do so.

But Fand wouldn’t be Fand if she didn’t let everyone she met know exactly what she thought of them, as artistically and excoriatingly as possible, and most especially when it was their hospitality she found to be lacking. 

And Aodh wouldn’t be Aodh if he didn’t let her. And not _just_ because the touch of the goddess in his blood had him leaping, however foolishly, towards the fight.

“Come on,” he said softly. Pushing himself up off the tree, her skinny collection of limbs bundled in his arms. “This is supposed to be a blessed forest. Druids and unicorns and healing ponds, the whole works. I’m sure there’s something in here that can put your blood back where it belongs, hmm?”

She hummed against his neck. “There’s a witch as well,” she murmured. Slow and languid, a bard’s trained recall still instinctive even as her endurance spooled out. “Witch of Dara Wood. Hag, maybe? Might get cursed instead. Got some dice somewhere. Want to roll for luck?”

“No, thank you,” he said, though smiling. He shook his head as he shifted her upwards in his arms, scanning the dim tangle of trees for a hopeful direction. “You have to ruin all my hopes, don’t you?”

Fand hummed. “’S what I’m for,” she whispered agreeably. He could feel the tacky seep of her wound against his chest. The chill of her skin. A ruiner of hopes, oh yes. Worse than anyone he’d ever met or loved before.

They wouldn’t be going very far from here. Not at all.

He picked the brightest patch of forest. The path with the most moonlight glimmering through the trees. He wanted water, mostly, and a bit of space. Something to clean the wound with, a place to lie her down to rest. He had a bit of bread left. If he could get it into her, get just enough of her strength back, they might have hope. Her songs had power. He just had to give her enough to start.

Something fluttered ahead of him, as they crept through the tangle. It took him a minute to notice, focusing on his feet and not dropping her, but the motion did eventually catch his eye. A pale, tiny shape in the moonlight. Then, a little further on, a _lot_ of pale shapes in the moonlight. He almost startled, the hip with his hand axes canting upwards, before his mind caught up with his eyes and his instincts, and he made sense of the image.

The … quite lovely image, honestly. Sincerely and serenely beautiful. 

A cloud of moths drifted through a clearing in front of him. Dancing together under the moonlight, as he and Fand paused just beyond the treeline. Mostly pale, white and ghostly, but a few warmer and more glittering as well. White and blues and greys and golds and silvers. A delicate swirl of colour under the silver moon. Enchanting.

And a lovely clearing, too. Almost enough to make him question it. Question fate, question curses, question the ‘blessed wood’. A massive oak spread low branches and welcoming roots out across the space. A pool gathered to one side, cradled in a hollow by some of the larger ones. Mossy banks and small white flowers surrounded it, as if inviting someone to lie down. The moths fluttered overhead, glimmering in the moonlight.

At least the water was dark, Aodh thought wryly. If it had been shining, he would have turned on his heel and walked out.

“… Did you roll my dice after all?” Fand mumbled, her head propped on his shoulder to look warily out into the space. “What was it? A five or a six for a mystic clearing?”

“I’m not sure,” he whispered back. “Do you think dice can roll themselves? But. More importantly, I guess. Do you want to chance it? What were our options again? Witch, druid or unicorn?”

She hummed thoughtfully. And thinly, her arms clenched around her middle. “Or fey,” she offered lowly. “Or any number of things. But, ah. We don’t have a lot of choice, do we?”

No. No, he supposed they didn’t really. Well. All right, then. 

She palmed a knife in a tacky palm as he carried her out across the clearing. The cloud of moths scattered away from them, a glittering explosion of pale shapes, and reformed behind them almost without a qualm. Fluttering closer, as if curious. Aodh made it to the pool, crouching down to lay Fand on the moss. As soon as she was clear, his hand found his axes. Caution. The suspicion of the low-minded and wary, some might say. But it hadn’t been a good week for pleasant surprises.

Nothing moved, though. Nothing beyond the curious swirls and circles of the moths. And after a minute or two of waiting, of stretching his senses out into a great well of nothing, even the most well-founded caution started to feel a little foolish.

He looked down at Fand, a hint of a smile and a sheepish expression on his face. She looked right back, an equally rueful expression on hers. He stowed the axe, and she the knife.

“What a pair we are,” she murmured, pale and bloodless against the moss. “The rudest guests in the world.”

“Blame the quality of our recent hosts,” he offered back, a hand going instinctively to her shoulder. “Here. Gather up some moss, get some pressure on it. I’m going to get some water. We need to clean and restitch it before anything else happens.”

She grinned, her teeth stark in the moonlight. “Hope it’s not cursed water, then,” she said, and he huffed out a breath in laughing disgust. Because of course she would say that. Of course she would _think_ it.

No better woman to tempt fate than Fand Ildánach. 

His skin prickled as he leaned over the pool. Because she said it, or because he was already exhausted and paranoid, he didn’t know. But the beast stirred under his skin. Not battle-blood, the Morrígan’s grip on his soul urging him to the fight. This time it was the older animal, the one he’d been born with, patient and instinctive. He was wearing the wrong skin but for a moment, poised over the pool, he felt the urge to flick his ears.

Something moved in the tree above him. Only faintly. Only _minutely_. But he was already shifting into a ready crouch, his axes in his hands and leaning back towards Fand, when the voice rang out.

“I’m sorry,” said the voice, low and feminine, as a ghostly shape revealed itself on a great limb above them. “I shouldn’t disturb, I know, I just … Is she hurt?”

Aodh stared. He should have answered, he knew. Honestly, given the week they’d been having, he likely should have already thrown an axe. Fand, her hands curled into claws and stained against her stomach, should have already thrown a knife. Should have, would have. If the shape hadn’t …

Well. If the shape hadn’t been what it was.

The creature moved above them, drifting out along the branch to drop down to earth next to the main trunk of the oak. Even as he backed up faintly, Aodh stared at her. He said ‘creature’. He really meant it. It, she, was humanoid, in the broad sense. All the right limbs in all the right places. But she was no race he had ever seen. Ghostly pale, almost luminous in the moonlight, she looked … 

Her eyes were dark and almond-shaped like an owl’s, set in white-furred discs, the nose beak-like over a human mouth. Her ears were long and pointed like an elf’s. Her short, silver-white hair bristled wildly upright like a gnome’s. Her skin was grey-gold and almost … dusty? Like the wings of the moths dancing in the air around them. A pair of delicate, furred antennae added to that element of the picture. She was _huge_. Easily seven, seven and a half feet tall, wrapped in furs and hide, though she hunched playfully. Her white-furred legs looked like the hind limbs of a deer, and a pale mule’s tail curled shyly behind one of them. She dropped down onto her haunches to look at them, crouching a little warily but mostly curiously under the tree.

The overall effect was … mismatched. To say the least. Almost childlike, Aodh thought, his hands tight and wary on his axes. It wasn’t elegant or mysterious, like you expect from the likes of a fey. It looked more like … like a child had taken all her favourite features from all her favourite things and thrown them together, with little care for rhyme or reason. A cheerful hodgepodge of a creature.

The moths gravitated to her instantly. Or had gravitated to her all along. A small, private few of them seemed to cling to her, though, fluttering in and about her space, brushing her cheeks with tiny wings. She tilted her head, looking between Fand, lying bloodied on the ground, and Aodh, his axes still in his hands. Her face creased curiously.

In the face of it, the face of _her_ , Aodh froze. He had to admit that. Fand too, though she had more of an excuse. The pair of them stayed still and trembling in the moonlight, barely breathing. 

Not _fear_ , as such. Not that. But … a paralysing sense of strangeness, maybe.

Maybe this was a blessed forest after all. Or maybe they’d just met the witch.

The creature crept towards them. Cautiously, a careful, almost testing movement. Again, almost childlike. She crept a step or two closer, but stopped the instant they moved, the moment Aodh’s hands shifted on his axes. She curled long, knobbly hands, glancing between them.

“Are you all right?” she tried again. A low, rough voice. “Do you need help, if you’re hurt?”

She gestured to Fand. _Gently_ , the motion so very careful not to alarm. Despite himself, Aodh risked looking away from her to look at Fand too. To glance wild-eyed at her, to see if she had any more ideas than him. To see if the trained lore-keeper of the two of them had any more idea what they were dealing with and what to do about it.

Fand only stared back, the whites of her wide eyes clearly visible against her grey face, her knuckles pale and stark against the dark wound at her side.

His heart lurched a bit. The reminder. Sit and rest or stand and fight, he’d said, but …

She wouldn’t survive a fight. She just wouldn’t.

He took a step forward. Stiltedly, desperately. Unreasoning instinct, to cover her, to get between her and the threat. He was on the wrong side, but instinct still moved him without a care. He raised both axes in a guard as he hurried to her side. 

She grabbed him as he arrived. One tacky hand to grip his calf, fingers knotting in his trouser-leg. The other pressed down on the wound. 

The creature, flinching back a bit at his flurry of motion, looked between them once more. Then she straightened slightly, coming up out of her stoop almost to her full height, and held out one hand towards them through the cloud of moths. Her strange owl-eyes found Aodh’s. The other hand reached towards a pouch at her belt.

She whispered a word, and the outstretched hand filled with … berries. Little ones, black and shining. Absolutely tiny in her huge palm.

Aodh shifted. Raised an axe defensively. And just stared.

“I can help,” the creature said softly. Earnestly. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you. I forgot to change my shape, and I’m sorry. But the berries can help. They heal, at least a little bit. It’s safe, I promise. I only came down because you looked hurt. Mother said I’m supposed to hide from strangers. But you’re supposed to help if someone needs help too.”

Changing shape, and mother said. Well. That was a thing.

He looked down at Fand again. Helplessly. Some of the earlier humour bubbling back up. Mother said. What were they supposed to do with that, then?

“… I feel like there are stories about taking sweet things from strange creatures in forests,” he said quietly. _Ruefully_. The rudest guest in the world. Fand blinked, and grinned tiredly up at him. 

“No worse than cursed water,” she murmured thinly. “And honestly. We … I think we’re out of choice. Time. We’re out of time.”

She was so pale. Corpse-pale. A pallor down to the bone. It was more than a fair point.

Aodh stowed his axes and reached, _carefully_ , for the creature’s hand. The berries. She tipped them easily into his palm. Barely brushing his fingers, taking care not to touch him too much. Owl-eyes regarded him easily, the creature stepping back with light, coltish grace.

“Thank you,” he said. “We, ah. Well. Thank you.”

She nodded. “Give her all of them,” she said. “They’re small, they don’t fix too much. I can go again if we need more, but if it’s very bad, we’ll need to find Mother.”

Aodh grimaced. “Let’s go with this for now,” he said, stooping down to hold out his palm to Fand. He honestly didn’t mean to sound as ungrateful as he probably did, but … well. One strange creature at a time. The hairs on his neck were already standing on end just kneeling in front of this one. Whatever ‘mother’ was, he’d be quite happy to wait a while before being introduced to her. 

Especially if she was, as he was very much beginning to suspect, likely the Dara Wood Witch.

Fand grabbed his hand, cupping the back of it with hers and tipping the entire palmful of berries into her mouth at once. Her teeth scraped over his palm, which did not help the hairs on his neck in the _slightest_. She knew it, too. She grinned a trembling grin, and licked a stripe across his hand, as if to catch up anything she’d missed. Or that would be the theory, if he didn’t know her as well as he did. She might be dying, maybe taking poison or curses from a strange witch creature in a blessed forest, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be impossible all the way into the grave.

Aodh glared at her, and wiped his hand pointedly down his front. Fand gave her best disingenuous smile around her mouthful of berries.

And the creature, beside them, giggled faintly.

She stopped, instantly, the moment Aodh looked at her. Shuffled, shamefaced, her mule’s tail twitching behind her. Again, a childish gesture. A kid caught doing something she shouldn’t. Aodh squinted at her, but then Fand inhaled sharply, grabbing for his arm again, and his head snapped back around. 

It was a good gasp this time, though. Unlike any other point in the last week. It was a _good_ gasp. The wound didn’t close, not all the way, but the blood flow slowed and mostly stopped, the edges of the wound closing in a bit. 

It did shrink a bit around the remains of the old stitches, which was going to be a bear later on, but hey. It was much, much better than five minutes ago. He’d take it.

“That’s good,” he murmured, grabbing some moss and gently sponging some of the old blood out of the way. It did look good. “Not as good as a rest and one of your songs, but it’s a good start. Pack this again, bandage it, we might be good for a while yet.”

“Mmm,” Fand hummed, poking her side curiously. “I feel a lot less ragged, too. They’re, hmm. They’re good. Like a four-course meal. I could outrun six knights on that.”

“How about not,” Aodh quelled, batting her hand lightly away. “ _You_ might have had a four-course meal, but I haven’t. And you’re still leaking, just more slowly. A proper rest and a song are still what the healer ordered, for the both of us.”

She blinked up at him. Smiled tiredly. “If we can get them,” she murmured. Gently enough. “How much ground will they have made up by now, you think? I could run on this, Aodh, and it was never you slowing us down. We might need the distance still.”

Well. The stubbornness was back in full force, at least, so she was feeling better. And she did have a point. Had always had one, right from the start.

They still weren’t going anywhere, though. He’d decided that the first time, and he saw no reason to change it now. Sit and rest, or stand and fight. Those were the choices from here. It could be the battle-blood speaking, it could be his own streak of stubborn, but he was tired of running. It was killing them just as surely as fighting would, and more slowly and painfully. No. No more. 

Let Bres and his knights come. Neither Aodh Maol-Morrígan nor Fand Ildánach would run any longer. 

“Do …” a voice cut in hesitantly. That low, rough voice. Aodh looked up at the creature again, at the pale shape standing over them, her tail curling anxiously behind her legs. “Do you need more help? We could find Mother. She could help keep you safe, if bad people are coming.”

Aodh hesitated again. Trying to think of a way to answer that didn’t sound ungratefully suspicious. But Fand, healthier now, forestalled him. 

“How do you know we’re not bad people?” she asked, quiet and curious. Leaning up on her good elbow to watch their strange new companion thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s very kind of you to offer, but your mother told you to hide from strangers. I’m sure that was for a reason. How do you know we’re not the bad ones? You might be bringing bad people home to your mother. People who might hurt her.”

The creature looked at her. Held her gaze, her tail flicking thoughtfully. She straightened up slightly, uncurled from her stoop. Aodh straightened a bit as well. She was _huge_. But Fand stayed placid, pale and bloodied and easy on the moss. And the creature didn’t seem offended either.

“… He wanted to protect you,” she said finally. Slowly but surely. “He didn’t hurt me, didn’t hit me with his axes. Even though I’m a bad shape, and I scared him. The most important thing was to help and protect you. That’s a good thing. Even if it’s just for you, it’s still good. So if … you’re _bad_ , you’re not _all_ bad. And that should be enough to try and help, shouldn’t it?”

Fand blinked at her for a long second. Then she sagged back off her elbow. Lay back down on the moss, and ran two pale, tacky hands over her face. Pressed them there.

Aodh understood. Completely.

“Your mother was right the first time,” Fand said faintly. With tired and helpless enchantment. “You really should hide from strangers.”

The creature smiled faintly, and crouched back down onto all fours. She sidled gently closer to them. “I think that’s mostly because I alarm them,” she admitted lightly. “I don’t have to. I could wear a better shape, one like my mother’s, or like the elves. But I forget a lot. I like this one best. And then I scare people. Like you.”

Aodh grimaced, and scrubbed a hand through the short hairs on his neck. They’d settled, by now. They’d mostly eased from their bristling.

“That wasn’t really you,” he said softly. “I mean, it was. It’s alarming to be faced with something you don’t understand yet. But we were going to be alarmed anyway. We’ve been the guests of some … unfriendly people lately. With Fand hurt, I wasn’t … I was going to be alarmed anyway. But you needn’t worry. So long as we know what and who we’re dealing with, we’re not really all concerned about shape.”

He mustered the beast forward to demonstrate. As much as he could, he didn’t really have the energy for a change yet. But he let his eyes shift, let the boar shine through just a little bit.

The creature leaned up immediately. Enchanted. She leaned towards him in fascination.

“Oh!” she said, wondering. A gnarled hand reached towards his face, but paused before it quite got there. “Are you like me? Do you like the pigs best? They do have lovely ears.”

Her own flickered briefly, morphing into the furred ears of a boar. Then they flicked back, once again matching Fand’s instead, the long, delicate ears of an elf. She grinned happily at him. 

Fand, at his feet, snorted gently.

“I doubt he’s like you,” she said, but lightly. Warmly. “I’m not sure what you are, spriteling, but I don’t think either of us have ever seen your like. Aodh is beast-touched. His line are an old blood, one that reaches out to the natural world. They can be a lot of things. But it was the spirit of the boar that drew my friend in the end.” She paused, and grinned slightly. “I can’t fault his taste. They’re tough things, boars. Stubborn and strong. Good friends, if you can get them.”

He looked down at her, and she met his gaze as lightly and as readily as always. As she had from the first. Fand Ildánach, who never flinched, not even from bloodied beast-men whose souls had been pledged to the Phantom Queen. She’d stumbled across him in battle, that first time. She hadn’t so much as turned a hair.

“… Boars aren’t alone there,” he said quietly. “Elven bards do just as well.” A faint smile. “On all counts. From friendship to stubborn.”

She grinned at him. All bright teeth. The creature hunkered down and nearly cooed.

“You’re very cute,” she said frankly. Without any shame at all. “But I like that. I didn’t know about that. Beast-touched. It’s a shame you only get to pick one, but it’s a nice thing to be.” She grinned and tilted her head. “It’s nice to have more shapes. My mother has a lot, she can turn into things all the way. I have to just pick the bits I like. But that’s fine too. There’s a lot of things to like.”

Fand looked at her thoughtfully. Perhaps catching the same thing Aodh had. Changing shapes and mother said. She propped herself back up again. Aodh’s bard. She pulled herself up on both elbows.

“Just out of curiosity,” she started, calm and careful. “Is your mother a druid?”

Because it had been promised. Dara Wood was a blessed wood. Druids and unicorns and healing ponds. Witches. And strange shapeshifters, apparently. 

The creature smiled again. Warmly, gently. The gentle pride of a daughter in her home.

“Yes, she is,” she said. “You know her, I think. Or you’ve heard of her. The Witch of Dara Wood. She helps keep the forest safe. And those who come to it, too. If … they’re wounded, maybe. If they need help, and carry no evil with them.”

She looked pointedly at Fand as she said it. At the almost forgotten wound still struggling closed in her side. Fand grimaced pointedly back at her. But then looked at Aodh. A thin, hesitant question in the drawn lines of her face. 

And Aodh … didn’t really have an answer. Not a considered one, at any rate. Not an _educated_ one. Whatever lore Fand had to draw on regarding Dara Wood and its witches, he had nothing. He knew druids, some little bit, or he’d known _a_ druid, once upon a time, but not enough to tell if this one might be friend or foe.

But mothers taught their daughters, presumably. And the creature had offered them more help and hospitality in an hour than a lord of the land had offered them in days. When it came down to it, compared to Bres the Beautiful, the Witch of Dara Wood couldn’t be a _worse_ host. 

And there only so many times one could politely refuse an invitation without a reason. They’d been rude often lately. But they were not yet terrible guests.

He moved forward cautiously. Stepped around Fand towards the creature. She watched him. They both did. He held his hand out gently. An open palm, in invitation.

“I am Aodh Maol-Morrígan,” he said, while she curiously and carefully placed her hand in his. “A warrior of the Phantom Queen. And this is Fand Ildánach, bright bard of the school of Findias. We thank you for the help you have offered us and, if the invitation is true, we would be honoured to present ourselves before your mother.”

The creature blinked a bit. Bemused. She looked at Fand, who looked back as steadily. Then, she smiled softly. Curled her hand more firmly and warmly in Aodh’s.

“Líadan,” she said softly. “Líadan, daughter of Fódla. I’m happy to meet you. And I’m sure my mother will be happy as well. Um. Provided I get you to her in one piece.” She grinned, and twitched her antenna at Fand. “In that cause, do you want to rest a bit more before we go? I can make some more berries as well. You can share them, this time. So he can have a four-course meal as well.”

Fand barked a laugh. Delighted. Aodh turned his grip to squeeze her knobbly hand in gratitude.

“I would be grateful indeed,” he said, smiling himself. “Thank you again, Líadan. The day, and the month come to that, have been much better for meeting you.”

“What he said,” Fand agreed, smiling with all her teeth. “Our pleasure, Líadan. Without a doubt.”

Líadan twitched shyly. Young and coltish once again. But she shook her arm out with a pleased smile, and cupped her palm for another set of berries.

All right then, Aodh thought peaceably. All right. They’d sit and rest. Eat berries fit for kings. Gather water from the pool and moss from the verge, and see to the wound properly. And then, when they’d had a rest, and had a song, they’d gather themselves up and follow Líadan into the depths of Dara Wood, to meet whatever witch or woman or druid could raise so cheerfully odd a child. 

And then, rightfully, thank her. 

The moths danced grey and golden in the forest moonlight around them. The great oak offered shelter; the pool offered sweet water. And a strange changeling-child offered healing and welcome, even to bloodied strangers who had been less than polite. It was, all in all, a far better end to the day than either he or Fand had hoped.

A five or a six for a mystic clearing, he thought mildly. Yes. Whatever god had rolled their dice for them, he’d have to thank them too.

It was, after all, never wise to be rude.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:
> 
> Aodh is a beasthide shifter, and a zealot barbarian whose soul was claimed by the Morrígan, who is literally the first deity I thought of when I read that subclass. Maol-Morrígan is a byname meaning roughly 'servant of the phantom queen'.
> 
> Fand is an elven lore bard, and of the school of Findias, one of the four cities from which the treasures of Ireland came. Ildánach is a byname meaning 'many skilled', usually applied to the god Lugh, and that's probably the deity she prays to, and possibly the one who rolled her dice for them.
> 
> Líadan is me having some fun with the concept of a D&D changeling who grew up feral in the woods and was raised by a wild-shaping Firbolg druid, hence her borrowing features from animals as well as humanoids, and liking to be seven feet tall like her mother. (I'm using firbolg purely in the D&D sense, not the Irish mythology sense, mostly because I haven't worked out anything else for the minute). She's also a swarmkeeper ranger rather than a druid herself, though that may not be immediately obvious.
> 
> Bres the Beautiful is one of the villains of The Battle of Magh Tuireadh, a half-Formorian King who betrayed the Tuatha de Danann to the Formorians. I just borrowed his name and pretty much nothing else here. Heh.


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